


Wolf in Thorns

by Aspidities



Series: Smutcation Quickies [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Canon Compliant, F/F, In a sense, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex, Pre red wedding, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 15:49:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14428944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aspidities/pseuds/Aspidities
Summary: Sansa is awoken by Margaery, who wants to make her a promise...and claim a prize.





	Wolf in Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my Smutcation Quickies! These are 1500-3000 word one shots for various fandoms, as a way to keep myself motivated during my long two weeks off. 
> 
> Please check out my [ Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bitterbones87) for more info, to suggest a quickie prompt, or to keep up on updates!

Sansa’s bed was tall and large, four-cornered, exactly the kind of bed she’d imagined a princess having, as a girl.

Of course, she’d also imagined her prince to be just as comely as Joffrey. But, like all of her childhood dreams, the reality was tarnished under the gold, a rotten worm coring away at the brightest apple. Joffrey was the worm. The bed was old, no doubt a lingering relic of the Targaryen reign, and it was rickety, rocking at the slightest provocation. The extravagant-looking cloth these Southerners adorned their beds with was nowhere near as warm as the pile of furs preferred in the North, and Sansa shivered beneath her light shift, feeling goosepimples rise.

Once again, she shut her eyes and saw her father. She saw him lowered to the block, and the greatsword Ice came down, again and again, in her mind. And then her eyes would pop open and she’d shudder awake once more, and that was how she usually spent her nights.

She spent her days in the gardens and in Maegor’s Holdfast, alternating between sitting silent under the weirwood tree, or staring out the window from the tower, as her fingers blindly picked out pretty patterns in gold and red. Lions. For her sons, the septas told her, merrily. All the lovely golden boys, just like Joffrey. And she would look to her still-flat belly and feel sick, dreading the day that it would swell.

Things had changed when Margaery Tyrell and her retinue of knights, dancers, players and singers came to King’s Landing, and for that Sansa thanked her gods beneath the heart tree. The laughing, lusty Tyrell girl with her buxom frame and wicked green eyes bestowing the favor of her smile upon whomsoever her gaze landed…half the city was in love with her. She’d come like something from a minstrel’s harp; Jonquil and Florian the Fool, perhaps, for the garlands of roses in her lovely chestnut hair, tumbling sweetly into her bosom for Joffrey to fetch like the stupid, churlish boy he was. He was the Fool for her quite immediately, going into the gallant bluster he’d put on for Sansa when she’d arrived, and the Stark girl thanked her gods further still for that. Joffrey was occupied in playing the prince to someone else now, and the Holdfast was a brighter place with the singers and the flutists, even if Cersei’s watchful eye never ceased its grip on her.

The guilt, however, was still deep. Guilt over her father, guilt over what had happened to poor, lost Arya, and now, guilt over what would happen to Margaery. She had prayed, fervently, to old gods and new, to let her engagement be ended, to let Cersei somehow let her leave….but the Tyrell girl would be subject to the same treatment. By praying for her torment to end, she’d cursed the laughing-eyed brunette to the same fate. Sansa’s mouth twisted sourly as she imagined those bright eyes turned dull and lackluster, her hair lank, her body bruised from Jeffrey’s…attentions. Guilt cramped her stomach again and she turned in bed, trying to find warmth.

Something moved in the hallway outside her door, and Sansa was instantly alert, every sense tingling. A cat, she thought, wildly, but no…the cats of King’s Landing avoided the royal quarters like the plague, ever since Joffrey had taken to making pincushions out of them with his arrows. Worse, she suspected, it could be a Hound. The scarred, brutal knight terrified her, and his silent watchful eyes made her nervous.

She drew in to her sheets and considered her options. She had none, really. Whomsoever wished to enter this room and rape her could do so, if they paid off the right guard. None of them were loyal to her as her father’s men had been. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, she cursed the day she had come to this falsely-beguiling city.

The hinges of her door were well-oiled, no rusted Northern iron here, but she still heard the door creak open, and sat up in bed, determined to be awake and aware for whatever was to come. Sansa cast her eyes wildly about the room for a weapon, but of course, there was none. No one would so much as trust the Wolf girl with a knife to even cut her meat, after her brother’s betrayal. She cursed, bitterly, and held herself close, every hair on her body lifted, as she watched the flickering flame of a lantern swing into the gloom, followed by a hooded, cloaked figure of little height, who swung the door near-silently closed behind. The lantern lifted, raising to display brown curls and a pert nose over smiling, red lips—

Margaery Tyrell. It was the Rose of Highgarden herself. Sansa’s mouth dropped open and her hands on the blankets relaxed.

“Did I startle you, little wolf?” The winsome brunette asked, dropping her hood and cloak at the foot of Sansa’s bed, as she crossed to place the lantern on the night table, seating herself beside the gaping Northerner. She placed a lovely, perfumed hand on the blanket beside Sansa’s thigh, and leaned beside her, a gentle, yet coy smile curling on her plush lips.

“Lady Margaery…I…what are you doing here?” Sansa groped for words and drew herself upright on her elbows, but Margaery’s hand landed on her chest like a bird and pressed, guiding her back down. The weight of her fingers warmed Sansa’s chilled skin, and she blushed into the dark as heat pooled in her belly and trickled lower down.

“Seeing you, of course.” The Tyrell girl said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and playfully gave Sansa’s leg a push. “Couldn’t very well do that with the Queen watching our every move, could I? Now budge up, there’s a good girl.”

Sansa was unthinkingly compliant, scooting over as Margaery climbed into the bed with her. The older girl was wearing a nightgown of far finer Volantine silk than Sansa’s simple cotton shift; edged with Dornish lace and detailed with the rose of her house, nestled between her generous breasts. The material was nearly see-through, and Sansa couldn’t help but be drawn in at the sight of the older girl’s darkened nipples lifting beneath the gown, and, below, at the join of her legs, a dark v of curling hair. Wild, like the rose maze said to surround Highgarden.

She swallowed, quickly, and felt the heat of the Tyrell girl’s limbs settle in alongside hers, as Margaery propped herself up on an elbow, cupping her head so that her curls cascaded down behind her, while her other hand stroked idly along Sansa’s arm, both soothing and enflaming the prickling lifted hairs there, the goosepimpled flesh. She was touching Sansa with the easy grace of a Southerner, who was clearly used to having her ladies in waiting, who were as close to her as sisters, in bed with her every night, and Sansa didn’t want to appear rude, but her body was on fire with nerves. She had never been this close to another woman. Northerners, despite the cold, did not often employ bedwarmers, and Sansa had only had Jeyne Pool and the poor old Septa Mordane to keep company with.

Septa Mordane whose head Joffrey had dipped in tar and mounted on a spike.

She shivered, and the brunette’s lips pursed, brow wrinkling in pretty concern. She drew still-closer, and her hand stroked along Sansa’s bare upper arms, which did nothing to help the Northern girl’s keyed-up senses, shifting between apprehension, guilty memories and confusing bursts of arousal. Margaery drew her arms about her, tutting at the cold on her skin.

“I didn’t figure a Stark wolf to be chilled, down here in the South, but I suppose you are far from home. Come, let me warm you. They say all us Highgarden flowers have a little of the sun inside us.”

“What are you doing here?” Sansa blurted, and then blushed at her rudeness. Margaery and the Tyrell entourage had been the only members of court who’d ever shown her any kindness, aside from Tyrion Lannister, and goodness knows she didn’t want to invite him into her bed. She hurried on, hoping to cover the bluntness of her question. “You are welcome, but…”

Margaery laughed, gaily and the sound was so bright that the room seemed to swell with it, and for the moment the cold darkness receded. “My poor sweet pup! How Cersei has kept you pinned, I don’t blame you for being fearful.” Her face grew solemn and she stroked Sansa’s cheek with the back of her hand, eyes darkened. “And how she has tortured you still, keeping you tied to that beast in a red doublet.”

Sansa’s eyes flew open and she looked around the room, terrified. Cersei’s spies could be anywhere, anyone, and she stiffened, feeling cold rush back into her limbs, despite the buxom girl’s body warmth. She chose her words carefully. “I know not what you mean. My prince is a good, kind prince, a-a golden lion…”

The hand stroking her face turned into a cup of her cheek. “Sansa. My darling. I will not betray you to Cersei. Speak truly. He is a beast. I’ve heard the rumors, and I know them to be true, just looking into his empty eyes. Like a pit.” Margaery shuddered. “I do not fancy the day when they break his engagement to you and make it to me, but alas…” She rolled her shoulders. “Needs must be done.”

Sansa gaped at the girl’s casual discussion of court politics, as if all was already set in stone. “But how can you know—“

“That Cersei will cut the engagement?” Margaery’s smile had a wry twist and her eyes sparkled with something akin to pity. “Because, my dear, you are a traitor from a traitor’s house, and there is no gain to tying your line to his. I do not seek to wound you, but that is how they view you, and it is true. My house, on the other hand…” She spread her hands, indicating wealth. “King’s Landing has need of grain, and I have grain. Lots of it.”

Sansa couldn’t help the relief that flooded into her face, and she shook herself. “But you know then…?” She rasped, eyes darting to the door. “You know…what he is. And you’d still marry him?”

“Political alliances and kind sweethearts never were good bedfellows, dear heart.” The Tyrell heiress informed her, almost sadly. “My brother cannot marry for love either, so we share our misery together. It would have been easier, with Renly; we could have shared him as we once shared our toys….but that was not to be.”

Share him. Sansa blushed when the realization hit, and she felt heat rising to her breasts. Margaery took notice, and appreciatively glanced down between their bodies at Sansa’s nipples lifting the front of her shift, and her hand stroking on the younger girl’s thin arm took on a possessive sweeping motion.

“Don’t look so shocked, Sansa.” Margaery murmured, eyes dark with unreadable emotions. “It is common in the Reach. Blame our Dornish blood, perhaps, but we don’t judge so harshly when a boy chooses to slip into the bed of another boy. Or…” She smiled, like a cat. “When a girl slips into the bed of another girl…”

Oh.

“Don’t look so shocked,” The brunette lilted, lifting one of Sansa’s red tendrils and letting it drop. “I have a plan in mind to ensure the Queen sees fit to betroth you to Loras…and then we could share again.” Dark green eyes met hers and the Tyrell girl dropped a kiss onto her palm, damp breath heating her skin. “Only this time... t’would be a wolf and not a stag.”

Oh.

Sansa trembled. “Why me?” She croaked, heart beating in her throat. “You said it yourself, I’m a traitor’s daughter, a useless pawn…they cut my father’s head off on the steps of the Sept of Baelor and I watched it fall into the crowd. You could have any girl for your brother, any girl of a greater house than mine…” She gulped. “Or another prettier than me to warm your bed…”

Margaery’s eyes were like a raven’s, Sansa decided, blackly intelligent and assessing but there was nothing that she could read. The girl even cocked her head like a bird, as she looked Sansa up and down.

“There is no one I’d rather have, Sansa. No one more beautiful than you, my sad little wolf. Or I’d be in her bed right now.”

Sansa blinked, and before she knew it, Margaery was rolling her, dark brown curls brushing her face as the older girl lay astride her on the bed, hands on either side of her face.

“I’ve seen you look at me,” the someday-queen whispered into Sansa’s ear, setting her skin on fire with her hot, damp breath. “I’ve seen you blush. I know what you want. I know Joffrey would take all that he could from you….but I am no Joffrey.”

Her mouth descended, then.

Sansa gasped at the wet tangle of lips and teeth and tongues, moaning as Margery’s body ground hers into the mattress, pelvis rocking down between the thin blankets. She clenched at the sheets, both wanting to grab something and also wanting them gone, torn away so she could feel the heat of the older girl’s body pressing into hers. Lips nipped at her own, and a wickedly talented tongue guided her inexperienced one, teaching her the pace. Eventually, her hands settled into Margaery’s wild, silken hair, and she moaned again, arching up as the Tyrell girl murmured her approval into the crevice of her throat, suckling at the skin there.

Margaery was gone for an instant, and Sansa mourned the loss of contact with a fierce, deep longing, until the older girl pulled the blankets from her body and settled back down, one silken thigh slipping between Sansa’s own. Now she could feel the heat of her skin, like the sun, warming the Northern girl and setting her bones aflame. The older girl was like a wild thing, moving from the tops of her breasts to her neck and shoulders, kissing and biting while she told Sansa in smoldering whispers how beautiful she was, how soft…

Sansa threaded her hands back in the morass of brown hair, needing to anchor herself. She dragged Margaery back up for a kiss, and the Tyrell girl moaned eagerly into her mouth, hips grinding down into Sansa’s overstimulated loins. She gasped, primitive instincts guiding her hips up to meet Margaery’s, and she felt the older girl’s hands roaming her body, tweaking her nipples and encouraging them to rise under the fabric. Sansa keened, fisting her hands in Margaery’s hair, and she heard an answering moan.

“Shh, pet, let me…” The Highgarden maiden was soothing her, lips on her ear, as she batted Sansa’s hands away to lift her night dress, raking it up and off the younger girl’s body. The coolness of the night air greeted her overheated skin, and Sansa felt a sudden flush of fear, wanting to cover herself, but the Tyrell girl’s eyes were fierce, devouring her, and she let her hands fall helplessly to her sides.

“That’s it,” Margaery murmured, praising, as she lifted her own shift, exposing her high, pert, breasts and gloriously dark tangle of curls. “Let me see you.”

“Gods…” Sansa choked, and lifted her hand tentatively, placing it on the smooth plane of the older girl’s stomach, where the muscles leapt to her touch. “You’re like a dream.”

Margaery rumbled her wicked chuckle, and dragged Sansa’s hand up to kiss and bite at her fingers. “No dream,” she promised the Stark girl. “Just you and I, here in this bed.”

With that, the dark head dipped to Sansa’s breasts, and a wet, hot mouth descended on her aching nipples, fierce and sharp with teeth scraping along the sensitive flesh. She cried out, arching, and Margaery was there to hold her down, straddling her hips and sliding the slickness of her sex against Sansa’s bare thigh. The sensual glide of it was maddening, overwhelming to the Stark girl’s inexperienced flesh, and she nearly sobbed at the wetness and heat she’d helped to create, there at the juncture of the thighs of the most lovely girl in all of Westeros. She stiffened her thigh, trying to help provide a surface to grind against while the older girl laved her ribcage with sucking, biting kisses, and an approving groan was her reward.

Margaery lifted herself, however, far too soon in Sansa’s estimation, who tried, in vain, to grab at the older girl’s hips and pull them back down, to keep the sensation going. The Rose of Highgarden whispered sweet nothings to her, soothing, and her lips descended again, chasing the droplets of sweat that pooled at Sansa’s concave belly, and then…dipping lower, to her hipbones, hair teasingly draping between her legs…And now Sansa was tensing, gripping the sheet, unsure, as Margaery’s hot breath skated across her damp curls, making her skin shiver with need.

“I—“ She started, but there was no need. Her new lover shushed her, quietly.

“Hush, sweetling. Let me make you feel good.” Her mouth was just above the lower lips of Sansa’s sex as she spoke, and the heat of it was driving the Stark girl mad. She grit into the sheets with her hands and nearly screamed as Margaery’s tongue flickered out to trace the slick drops of excitement. She moaned, and her tongue slipped between the puffy lips, sweeping to collect more of Sansa’s sweetness, and the Stark girl was overcome.

She may have cried out. She did not know. It wasn’t like in the songs, but the songs told nothing that was as sweet as this. Her hips were rocking, but Margaery held her in place, and the friction of her tongue’s wicked dancing inside of her was enough to keep Sansa arching forward for more. Margaery withdrew, making her keen at the loss, but soon she was bucking again as the Tyrell girl found the hard, swollen bud and began sucking, tongue coaxing it to roll from it’s hood.

“Mmmm…” The Tyrell girl moaned and looked up at her with hooded, smoldering eyes as her tongue flickered and swept. “My sweet girl…my winter wolf…”

Sansa arched her spine as Margaery resumed her sucking, lips speaking their sweetness now to her swollen sex instead of her ears, but with equal effect. There was a tightness coiling in her belly, a ribbon of red hot desire streaking through her loins, centering on the actions that devious mouth like an arrow, and the Tyrell girl seemed to instinctively know just what to do to make that fluttering, clenching feeling race to its peak. She was strumming on Sansa’s clit with her tongue now, making furious moans into the red curls of her sex, and Sansa was muffling her screams into a pillow, quaking as she tossed and writhed on the bed. She was building and building toward something, but what she did not know…

Until the dam broke and the crescendo exploded in stars behind her eyes. Sansa may have wept or screamed or sang to the Seven, for all she knew. She was bucking and writhing and gushing and for a wild, fearful moment she thought her throat would close and she would die, blissful and spasmodic as it was. But she did not die, she rushed over a brilliant peak and crested its edge like a falcon.

And through it all, Margaery’s possessive, heated voice guided her like a beacon, encouraging her even as her lips still worked against her clit.

“There, there my girl, my sweet girl, come for me, feel it—ah yes..!”

Margaery trembled against her and Sansa managed to breathe and look down, between her legs to where the Tyrell girl’s hand had snaked between her thighs and was rubbing furiously at her own sodden sex. She jerked, gasping into Sansa’s folds, and the redhead gasped with her, gushing a bit more as she realized Margaery was also experiencing the same pleasure she had just given to the wolf girl.

“Come up here,” she pleaded, drawing on her new lover’s sleek shoulders. “I want to kiss you and taste my pleasure on your lips.”

Margaery fairly groaned at that, quaking anew, but she happily complied, pressing her lips greedily to Sansa’s and smearing them with the wolf girl’s own wetness. Sansa moaned, tasting her own salt-slick desire as well as the heat of her lover’s mouth, and her hand shot between their twisting bodies, growing bold as she sought the source of Margaery’s tantalizingly pulsating heat.

“What a fine fierce thing you are,” The brunette murmured into her ear, but she caught Sansa’s wrist and drew it back up, pinning it beside her head. “I’ve awoken you, methinks.”

“Yes, and I want more.” Sansa demanded, hotly, feeling bold and fierce as Margaery had described her. She tried to move her other hand down, but the Tyrell girl laughed gaily and gave it the same treatment.

“You vixen! And here I thought your sigil was a direwolf.” The Rose teased, eyes bright. Her smile dropped, however, as her eyes raked down Sansa’s writhing, sweat-glistening body once more. “I’ll give you more, my pet. Roll over.”

“I want to touch you.” Sansa whined, complaining, but she did as she was bid. The enticement of ‘more’ was too appealing. She wanted all that Margaery’s clever tongue and hands could give her.

“You will, I promise.” Her lover assured her, laying a hot kiss on her spine. “But first…let me claim my prize.”

Sansa didn’t realize what she meant at first, until those lips traveled down her back….and slipped lower. Her head jerked up, and she would have wriggled away, but for Margaery’s hands firmly holding her hips in place.

“Margaery!” She squeaked, feeling suddenly vulnerable again as a smooth hand quested between her rear cheeks, spreading them even as she quaked. “What are you—that’s not—“

“Sweet girl, I cannot enter you in the normal way,” Margaery explained, patiently, as if she was talking to a child, as her fingers gathered the effusive, overflowing slick that had pooled between Sansa’s reddening thighs. “Should you be examined, you need to be intact, so that a betrothal will be legitimate in the eyes of the Queen. More’s the pity, as I should very much like to be the first one to stretch your sweet cunt.” Margaery sighed longingly, belying her casual use of such dirty common language. “I shall have to wait, I suppose.”

“But, but, my—“

“Your lovely ass will suit me just fine, sweetling.” The Tyrell girl’s wicked smile dipped to the small of her back, biting there and eliciting a tiny cry. “And don’t worry, I shall be far more gentle than my brother would be, judging by the waddles of our stableboys on the mornings after they attend to his bed.” She chuckled again, a rich, dark sound that made Sansa’s skin shiver.

Margaery’s mouth skirted over the rounded cheeks of her rear, and her tongue darted between. Sansa moaned, caught between desire and utter shame, as she found herself lifting for it, even as her cheeks flamed red. That wicked, torturous tongue was circling, fluttering, flickering over the tight ring, making her keen, longing for something more but she did not know what. The sensations of this night were so terrifyingly new that they clenched a fist in her belly.

The older girl moaned into Sansa’s ass, and her tongue quested further, pressing inside. The wet velvet feel of it made her inexperienced sex spasm with want, and a gush of fluid met Margaery’s cupping hand, coating her fingers in slippery heat. The tongue withdrew from her ass and the older girl replaced it with one of her fingers, not entering but simply pressing in maddeningly stimulating circles, making Sansa weep at the pressure. She wanted it inside, now, after the teasing, and it wasn’t long before Margaery gave it to her.

The long, delicate finger of the queen-to-be slipped inside the wolf girl’s virgin ass, and Sansa nearly screamed as Margaery pressed in to the knuckle. The burning stretch was both pleasurable and painful, and she moaned, falling forward and arching her back in utter submission to the overwhelming sensations. The Tyrell girl hissed with delight behind her, and her teeth set into Sansa’s spine, possessively sinking in as the Stark girl wailed and thrashed.

“That’s it, my lovely. All mine. Joffrey can’t take this, because it’s _mine_. I claimed you first.”

Her other hand ceased its cupping between Sansa’s legs and her fingers slipped through the now-overflowing folds, seeking her swollen bud once more. Rubbing furiously to roll it from its hood, she pressed deeper into Sansa’s ass with her finger, curling and thrusting as they rocked together on the bed. The wolf girl felt tears leaking from her eyes, but they were not from pain; she felt full and overwhelmed and so lost in her lust and the seeking thrusts inside of her that she had to express the overflow somehow, and her sex was already weeping, so her eyes simply followed suit. She cried out, feeling that inexorable, inexplicable peak begin to build in her belly once more, and shivered as the climax began to take hold.

Margaery guided her through it, fingers working a drumming beat on her clit while thrusting away inside her ass, and her voice was a silken blanket, dropping onto Sansa’s ears while she steered the ship of her pleasure to shore. “Yes, _yes_ my sweet girl...my wolf…all _mine_..”

When at last she came again, for only the second time in her life, Sansa called Margaery’s name. The orgasm crashed over her, waves lapping at her veins, and she shook beneath the storm of it. Her sex gushed effusively onto the older girl’s waiting fingers, and her ass spasmed around the intruding digit, welcoming it as she clenched and shuddered into the incredible feeling of it. Eventually, the pleasure receded into a comforting warmth, and she barely felt Margaery tenderly withdraw from her, laying another kiss on the rounded curve of her rear.

Her eyes began to droop, and she felt undeniable, inescapable tiredness creep into her limbs, almost drugging her into hazy compliance. Margaery was murmuring her gentle words again, drawing the blanket up over her body, and she reached clumsily for the older girl, trying to draw her down into an embrace. But the Rose of Highgarden only shook her head, smiling sadly.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid. But soon. Soon, my dear one, we shall never be parted, I promise you.”

And her whispering words of comfort were all that Sansa needed to finally drop into a deep and blessedly dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I’d just like to note that, in my canon, Marg makes good on her promise and Sansa goes to live happily ever after at Highgarden, and no one is blown up or given to the Boltons. A giant middle finger to the world where that doesn’t happen. <3
> 
> Follow my [ Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bitterbones87) for more info on how to submit prompts and to support me in my quest to fulfill them all!


End file.
